


am i pretty enough? to love back? no, not yet.

by beybladerunner



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Bugs, Corruption!Elias, Emetophobia, He/They/It Pronouns For Corruption!Elias, Hurt No Comfort, Infestations, Just Various Icky Corruption Things Really, M/M, Maybe Just A Little Bit Of Comfort, Moths Are Involved And Not In A Cool Way, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, The Corruption Fear Entity (The Magnus Archives), The Magnus Archives Spoilers, Theres Bugs In Skin Its Kinda Gross, Trypophobia, Very In-Depth Descriptions Of What It Is Like To Be And Become A Flesh Hive, Watch How Hard I Can Project Onto Both Of These Characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29148309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beybladerunner/pseuds/beybladerunner
Summary: Elias Bouchard gets exposed to something intoxicating, though it is something far from a pesticide.An AU In Which The Corruption Gets Its Grubby (Ha) Little Mitts Around This Poor, Desperate Businessman.Kudos and Comments would be much appreciated!! <3Alternatively, go to my Tumblr @barnabybugspeopleonline if you feel like shooting me a message and whatnot!!!
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	1. I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lepidoptera (/ˌlɛpɪˈdɒptərə/ LEP-i-DOP-tər-ə, from Ancient Greek lepís “scale” + pterón “wing”) is an order of insects that includes butterflies and moths (both are called lepidopterans). About 180,000 species of the Lepidoptera are described, in 126 families[1] and 46 superfamilies,[2] 10 percent of the total described species of living organisms.

Elias Bouchard had been working late that night.

Scrabbling down almost complete nonsense notes on what could only be described as off-brand parchment. The man’s eyes, which were impossibly green all the way down to the sclera, illuminated the page below him. A task that would usually be saved for his pristine desk lamp had it not somehow found its way on top of a spruce bookcase, just barely out of the laughably short man’s reach.

If Elias had just a bit more common sense, he probably would’ve turned to any of his staff members or even acquaintances to assist him in his affairs. However, he was a man whose pride was wounded easily, and the idea of having to rely on others painted a picturesque scene of a rather nasty injury.

Letting out a sigh that came out much heavier than intended, he stood up, leaving his paperwork unfinished for now. He could always get back to it later. So, instead, the “middle-aged” man reached for his regal chair that was comprised of mainly wood, and was immediately met with an unexpected struggle. Elias was aware that most people went frailer as they aged, his vessels were no exception, but the amount of heaving he had to put in just to press his mahogany adorned felt furniture against the wall was practically ridiculous.

Incidents like this made him wish his husband/ex-husband/ex-ex-husband was more inclined to come back to visit just a tad more often, though, he doubted he would help him regardless, no. If anything he would laugh and laugh and laugh as his apparent spouse slaved away.

Their antagonistic sides, which was most likely every side from an outsider’s view, seemed to compliment eachother, yet on the other hand they also seemed to complicate things with eachother.

Peter Lukas had been _“Missing In Action”_ for just under a year by now. If he was any less careless and the general public knew even a smidgen about him then there would no doubt be a search party peering through each and every nook and cranny of London and then some for the man.

But, that was not the case. As a matter of fact Elias knew where he was at this very moment, not to mention where he had been all of those months. His husband/ex-husband/ex-ex-husband/it’s-complicated had been lurking around on the top decks of his very own cargo ship, _The Tundra_. Only taking small breaks from the intoxicating comforts of his God’s mist to take a short peek at which of his very few crew members would be the best to sacrifice to The Lonely, and that would be that. Another person thrown overboard, another day that the Forsaken would be contented, until Peter had to do it again, of course, where he would simply rinse and repeat the process of narrowing down the few options of human contact he had out there on the vast, murky oceans that Elias had always found rather distasteful.

He had never pinpointed which parts about the waters had unsettled him so much or perhaps he had always felt too ashamed to show any signs of weakness. The avatar business could be more of a dog-eat-dog world than an economy at times, though those words are practically synonymous.

The bespectacled man felt his attention span slowly waning as he juggled his options carefully. He spent so long musing about spying on The Captain that he had damn near forgotten what he was doing at that moment in time. The avatar had fallen into a rather nasty habit of doing that. So many thoughts and so much knowledge all coming and going at once that it is just impossible to hold on to each and every one.

The lamp flickered once more, and the lightbulb within his mind followed suit.

Elias placed his first foot on the base of the chair, and then the second, making sure to maintain balance in only the regalest of ways. Mr Bouchard almost never did anything without an immense sense of pride. He then swept the lamp under his arm, carrying it down to the floor and to safety in what would’ve been a rather heroic gesture had the item of furniture been more humanoid and/or sentient.

Although, as he went to step back down from the chair, something else caught his eye, or, well, eyes. Something white, silky, soft and...almost enticing had draped itself across the entire length of his stupidly tall bookshelf. He reached a pale hand out in a clawing stance, preparing to rid his office of any pesky cobwebs. Yet as his hand graced the fuzzy material, he was hit with an awful realization. This was not a cobweb, and it had been much thicker and deeper than he had anticipated.

Elias Bouchard froze. Stricken with fear and right-arm deep in a moth’s nest.

Peter Lukas stood at the bow of _The Tundra_ , arms draped over the thick metal railing in a state of utter solitary bliss. Mist coiled its way around just about everything in sight, and the Forsaken man would have probably caught a cold had it not been for the navy blue overcoat he seemed to wear everywhere he went, or the fact that his family’s blood had felt like ice for as long as he or any of the other Lukas’ could remember.

Either way, here and now were no conditions for anyone normal. Anyone human. And Peter Lukas was neither normal nor human. Perhaps at a first glance, if you were allowed to get one, he’d appear to be a simple middle-aged man with a face full of pale stubble and long, greyed hair that he always tied up even if that failed to keep it out of his face. Nothing too out of the ordinary, though, if you were permitted to keep your gaze for any longer than a few fleeting moments you would realize that _typical men do not brush seven feet in height, nor do they have eyes lighter than a sheet of blue-tinged snow. They most definitely do not have the tendency to dissipate into ripples of fog and static whenever they’re unable to be bothered with the blandest of social interactions._

The boring grey flip-phone within the man’s oversized pocket buzzed and vibrated and most-importantly threatened to disrupt his privacy. Which was something he would not be having.

The person trying (and failing) to get through to him would no doubt be Elias. His…” _spouse_ ” whom he had a rather dreadful habit of neglecting far past what would be considered socially acceptable. Then again, Peter would hear the word “social” and already start running for the waters.

Letting his shoulders relax, the man let out a stubborn sigh as the ringing persisted, and persisted, and persisted, and persisted, and eventually it became a game of some sorts, with Mr Lukas wondering how long he could get away with simply not picking it up.

He gave it five more minutes as the fog around his already flickering form began to slide away, leaving him feeling more exposed than ever even if no one else was around to acknowledge him. The ringing didn’t stop, and eventually, the refusal did.

“You always know just when to pounce, don’t you, Elias? Have you been spying on me again?” He began blankly with just a hint of both amusement and accusal in his tone.

“ _Peter Lukas_ ,” A ragged voice growled from the other end, and Peter himself had almost recoiled at the sound. Hardly anyone addressed him by his full name anymore, not unless they wanted an argument, or, more realistically, for The Captain to retreat back into hiding for even longer than intended. Still, he kept the call going, even if by now he was gritting his near-fanged teeth.

“I demand you return to shore at once. I’m afraid that-” Elias cut himself off for a moment, followed by the sound of rustling and a rather well-disguised struggle. “I’m afraid that I need your help with some...business in my office. Preferably, as soon as possible.” The man’s voice seemed to waver a slight bit.

Silence hung in the air as static crackled in the backdrop. “I’ll think about it.” He replied gruffly. Nothing more, nothing less. He could practically hear Elias hissing and spitting from the other end not unlike a stray cat, though the businessman let it go surprisingly fast. “Alright.” He conceded. There was more muffled rustling, and something that sounded not unlike a thread snapping. Then, a cry of sheer-terror which was cut concerningly short by a crash, and then, nothing.

Peter was almost, key-word almost, compelled to ask him if he was okay until he rather swiftly realized that the deafening quiet afterwards was due to the other line disconnecting, and the pangs of worry and sympathy in the man’s broad chest quickly melted away. Elias was perfectly capable of licking his own wounds. If he had tripped or fallen that had simply been his own careless fault, hadn’t it? He could wait until he decided he wanted to come back home. Maybe then the soft-spot the reserved man had kept tucked away for his partner would find a way to make an appearance. Maybe not.

Though, unbeknownst to The Forsaken One, only one of them was lying face down unconscious, practically swarmed by thousands of unruly larvae, and, well, it certainly wasn’t Peter who would have to worry about The Corruption anytime soon. No, he hardly bothered with the concept of love altogether. Elias, on the other hand, would most likely fall into its tender embrace like an animal far too eager to stick its paws into a bear-trap.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nest  
> /nɛst/  
> noun
> 
> 1.  
> a structure or place made or chosen by a bird for laying eggs and sheltering its young:
> 
> 2.  
> a place filled with undesirable people, activities, or things:

Elias Bouchard  _ had _ been working late that night. That was, until he was involved in an unfortunate accident regarding an office chair and a poor sense of balance. They had passed out upon impact leaving them completely still and unaware of the blanket of grubs that had knitted their way around his small frame. They would writhe and wriggle and  _ squirm,  _ relatively in place, until one split from the pack, then another, and another. A few had slipped and subsequently drowned in the admittedly shallow puddle of blood that pooled its way around the fallen man almost like an uncanny shadow.

The others, however, seemed much more determined, perhaps even aggressive. He had destroyed their home, so it was only fair that he would make a lovely replacement. 

The blanket unfurled, each thread now loose as the caterpillars dragged their pulsating bodies onto where Elias’ rolled-up sleeve had exposed the sheet of flesh that made up his right arm. As of now, it was clean, unmarked, save for the few remnants of the nest that curled their way around his fingers, keeping them loosely knotted together. The children of The Crawling Rot would make sure that the man’s skin wouldn’t be so sad and barren for much longer. 

Like a mole to the soil, the first grub burrowed in. Then the second, and the third, and the fourth and the fifth and the sixth and the seventh until finally the arm itself resembled something more-so like a honeycomb than something belonging to a “human.” 

The small wounds healed up as fast as they had been inflicted, but, as the saying goes, when a door closes, a window opens, and the remaining tiny acolytes of The Corruption had already began to work on other parts of the body until their insides just below the topmost layer of skin looked like a damp, dark, abandoned, and most-importantly,  _ infested  _ room, even if it would be impossible to take a peek at the process at this point in time.

The moving van parked, and Elias Bouchard’s brand-new and closest neighbours settled down. It had been a tough journey, but they had made their way home. They would love and cherish their host, and it would learn to love them in tandem.

Their wriggling did not stop even as the lucky brand-new host stirred after an hour or maybe even two of being dead to the world. They would try to remain as motionless as they could to keep themselves hidden, but they would still twitch and maneuver as they showered every last inch of his anatomy with the love and the affection and the feeling of being wanted, no,  _ needed _ , that the man had craved so much throughout his several lifetimes. 

Sure, Peter loved him. He had said it himself, clear as day. But Peter Lukas was a man who liked to gamble, and people who liked to gamble also tended to be people who liked to lie. 

So, really, Elias should have been grateful that The Corruption had decided to sweep them up in its at first gentle embrace when nobody, or nothing, else would. Holding him so closely and clinging onto and within him so tightly that eventually the two would be indistinguishable. 

Perhaps The Lonely would have taken a shine to it if it had learnt to simply keep its mouth shut. Then again, he would have never fit in with the other followers of the Forsaken. A peacock amongst pigeons. The people of the fog were quiet and as cold as ice meanwhile Elias was talkative and loud and as warm as the glow of the sun’s rays on an already unbearably hot afternoon. 

Elias Bouchard came to at last, his body aching in several places and with blood slowly trickling its way down his face like an undesirable stream. Though, that was all of the aftermath of the fall that he was aware of. He placed a shaky hand to his forehead, brushing the blood away in little downwards strokes that would keep it out of their now unkempt hair. 

He sat up as slowly and as thoughtfully as he could, making sure not to place any more stress on, in his “one-hundred percent factual” opinion, his immaculate form. The fall, and more importantly, the landing, had left the man completely and utterly disoriented. He had already tried to Look around, to familiarize himself once more, and yet he was still as lost as he had been a few minutes prior, blinking slowly and staring into the white void of the ceiling and its dimming lights above as their typically limitless vision realigned.

After what could’ve felt like actual centuries, he finally rose back to his feet, relatively, to his knowledge, unharmed. Then, they began to recount the night’s harrowing events as they trudged back to their desk where their paperwork had sat discarded and yet with all of the patience an inanimate sheet of parchment could have. It had all come back to him in a pleasantly clean timeline. Like a gift wrapped with a bow so eye-catching it distracted the giftee from the horrors that stayed dormant beneath the packaging. 

The writing. The lamp. The chair. The bookcase. The nest. The prison. The phone-call. The vertigo. The nest. 

The businessman looked back over to where he had crash-landed, and he Saw that the tight, cosy bundle of silk had followed in his footsteps. The one difference was that it had exploded upon reaching the floor, leaving Elias to be set free and soft, fluffy residue plastered to just about every nearby corner. No worries, he could always clean it up in the morning. Though, he could’ve sworn that the nursery had not been empty when he had so carelessly lodged his hand in it. 

It reminisced on it now, feeling sick to the deepest pits of its stomach as it remembered the feeling of the grubs against its open and susceptible skin. Inching over and under and even between his fingers. So comfortable to be there while Elias felt the exact opposite. It was a wonder that none of them had decided to jump ship sooner rather than, unbeknownst to him, later. 

Of course, he found it peculiar that he couldn’t catch a single glimpse of a live caterpillar in his office. There was the disgusting handful that lay dead in the crimson puddle halfway across the room’s floor. But other than that? Nothing. No obvious signs of life, no obvious signs of infestation.

The Corruption must’ve learned how to play its cards exceptionally well to be capable of keeping itself hidden from a Watcher of such high-degree.

As Elias clambered onto his desk, too tired to drag the chair back to its usual position, to resume his work, he had felt the most overwhelming need to scratch at his shoulder, though he had hardly given it a second thought as his freshly inked quill danced its way across the page. The bespectacled man was blissfully unaware that he was now becoming part of something so much bigger than he alone would ever be no matter how hard nor how long he strived.


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apotheosis  
> /əˌpɒθɪˈəʊsɪs/  
> noun
> 
> 1.  
> the highest point in the development of something; a culmination or climax:
> 
> 2.  
> the elevation of someone to divine status:

By the time Elias woke up the following morning, the afternoon had already begun to drift by like clouds on a still day, meaning that he was  _ dreadfully  _ late for work, an occurrence that practically never cropped up these days.

Normally, he would have been both light  _ and _ quick on his feet and out the door within the next seven minutes. But today he found himself unable to sit up let alone rush to get ready for his job which he took so much pride in doing each and every day.

Before they could get to pondering what could possibly be weighing them down at that moment, they were struck with one of the worse headaches they had dealt with in awhile. No doubt a remnant from yesterday night’s, or rather this morning’s dangerous escapade. He touched a hand to the back of his head, whether to soothe the pain or to simply investigate even he didn't know. Unsurprisingly, when he brought his gaze back down on his fingers again, he was met with pale brown flakes of dried blood. 

The man’s shoulders inevitably slumped back down after that, clearly fighting on the losing side of a battle against exhaustion. The gears in his mind shed their rust and began to turn as he thought and thought and maybe thought a little too hard about how he could, at the very least, stand up. It had been a long time since Elias, or, well, Jonah as he had been back then, had ended up bed-ridden. Perhaps they just didn’t make illnesses like they used to. 

He would’ve taken time to laugh at his own snarky comment if it wasn’t for the newfound stinging and the blurring of his sight. They struggled to reach for their glasses, eventually getting a grip on them and slapping them onto their face. Even if they weren’t prescription. Even if he usually didn’t even need their assistance. Though, it’s not as if he could have come down with something or other so suddenly, right? With his current status and placement within the avatar hierarchy it would have been near impossible to put him in harm’s way. 

Another Pawn down. Perhaps even a Bishop. Another move made on The Crawling Rot’s part. Another tile crossed by The King. He knows he can’t keep evading it. Someone has to call Checkmate eventually.

Elias felt sick. Not just nauseous but  _ sick _ . Like it could feel the very concept of illness chewing and  _ gnawing _ away at its bones and yet the feeling did not stop there, it ran deeper and deeper until he could no longer follow it.

He carried the sickness, of course. But maybe,  _ just maybe, _ he had realised as his complexion paled, the sickness carried him as well.

That was it. 

The now greatly unnerved host leapt to his feet as his inexplicably tired legs threatened to buckle beneath him. He struggled and staggered his way out of the room and down the hallway, begging that he could make it to the bathroom before he could no longer suppress the need to empty the unknown and, quite frankly, terrifying contents of his stomach. 

The initial process was quick and easy. Simple. Relieving, almost. 

Though, as they wiped their mouth clean with the sleeve of their slightly less favored bathrobe, what they heard and then saw sent chills down their spine. It shook them to their very core. In fact, they would have almost thrown up again if they weren’t a man of such strong self-control.

Bugs. Worms. Larvae. 

Maybe only a handful of them but they still dragged their thick, slimy bodies over his usually spotless tiled floor. Elias would’ve thought himself crazy and yet he swore he could hear them whining. Like real, human children. Both fear and bile rose in his throat once more as the caterpillars cried out to him restlessly. Their song was loud and melodic, strangely beautiful if it wasn’t about to give him another migraine. 

Their stomach turned again, twisting itself into unnatural, squirming knots until more of The Corruption’s offspring cascaded out and onto the floor. The unlucky splattered against it into nothingness whilst the remaining bounced and rippled, unaffected, until they began trudging their way across the floor, trying to find their way back home like the rest of their creepy  _ and most certainly  _ crawly siblings.

He would take a step back, but that would just trap him in the bathtub, which is, arguably, one of the worst places to be stuck whilst fighting for both your life and autonomy. So where to now? The door simply wasn’t an option judging by how many of the creatures stood between him and the clearest exit path. 

The larvae slowly heaved towards him. They might have been small, and most likely not too intelligent but it is merely an animalistic instinct to know which way is home. Elias flinched as one bit into his ankle, embedding itself back into his flesh right where it didn’t belong, leaving nothing but a fresh hole and some grisly residue behind. The blonde was almost entirely powerless to fend for themselves as they were once again nagged at by overwhelming need to scratch and to itch and to  _ claw  _ at  _ their own body _ , nonetheless.

And so, Elias stood. Frozen with fear as the grubs made his skin resemble what could only be described as a trypophobe’s worst nightmare. Only now did he seem to remember the last time he had been this vulnerable, this feeble.

  
  
  


Admittedly, it had been a far less dangerous and disgusting situation. In fact, it had been the night of one of Simon Fairchild’s birthday parties. Elias couldn’t remember exactly which one, he just knew that it had been an absurdly high number that had been printed on the banners that were strung in impossibly high crevices around the house that year. 

By two or three or, hell, maybe even four in the morning they had found themselves worryingly intoxicated. They probably would have keeled over and collapsed if it weren’t for their, at the time, husband being there to stabilize them whenever a doorway or stairwell seemed to be just too much for a lightweight who had gotten themselves absolutely wrecked on cheap champagne. 

Peter himself had also probably been quite tipsy, at the very least. He found social gatherings far too intimidating, so much so, that it would be impossible for him to sit through the whole thing without a little help.

He would have never been like  _ that _ had his mind been fully intact. The sober Peter Lukas would have never crouched over his partner, rubbing circles into his back as he clung to the nearest toilet bowl, the long-ingested alcohol deciding it was time to leave. He wouldn’t have held onto him gingerly yet gently as he guided him out the door, taking a moment to have a quick laugh with the Birthday Boy about how hilarious his husband’s overindulgence had been. 

Elias could hardly believe it in the few moments of coherent thought he had left. The way Peter had held onto his arm and then some, so tightly it was almost impossible to break away, though it wasn’t as if he wanted to. 

The much taller man had spoke to him the whole journey home, sure, it had been less of a conversation and more of The Captain telling strange tales of the sea and monologues he had surely had a long, long time to ruminate on whilst alone just to keep his spouse awake for that little while longer. Elias couldn’t really make any of it out within his drunken haze, but he would coo and murmur at whatever his brain recognized as a term of endearment. 

Peter had been the one to tuck his husband into bed that night, giving them a few generous kisses here and there, making sure to avoid the mouth for now lest he wanted the taste of regurgitated champagne on his tongue. Mordechai Lukas would have been rolling in his grave if that hadn’t been the last time Elias had seen The Lonely Man in person. 

  
  
  


They missed him greatly, and that heartache was what had been their eventual downfall. 

That was what had caught The Corruption’s attention in the first place. So sad and so desperate to be cradled like he had been that night once again that the moths had snatched him up like one of the most bloodthirstiest cats in pursuit of a senseless mouse.

He missed him now, too. As he sat, huddled against his knees in his bathtub, back exposed as he had finally caved, dragging his nails over the agitated and pierced flesh. He dug in just a little too hard, drawing blood as the skin around it began to flake off and the worms tickled against his insides with delight. Soon, they would be free of their self-inflicted prison, and Elias would be looking forward to the love and care-filled future ahead of him.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reminiscence  
> /rɛmɪˈnɪs(ə)ns/  
> noun
> 
> 1.  
> a story told about a past event remembered by the narrator:
> 
> 2.  
> a characteristic of one thing that is suggestive of another:

It had been just under two months since Peter Lukas had heard from Elias Bouchard. 

In fact, it had been just under two months since Peter Lukas had heard from anyone. Those fifty-four days had been just like any other. Cold. Dismal.  _ Lonely _ . Each one as bland and as enjoyable as the last. Regardless, a seed of worry had grown in Peter’s mind, thriving off of his own paranoia. 

He wasn’t usually one for worrying, not unless he had found himself trapped and surrounded by the warm yet suffocating glow of one too many people. But leaving the line empty, _ dead even _ , for so long was so wildly out of character for a man he thought he knew more than anyone else. It caused him enough concern that he had almost considered calling him back, just to check in for what he promised himself would be a brief moment. 

Peter would release the flip-phone from its self-inflicted bindings and he would select each numbered button with a tad too much overthought. When it was time for the call to be submitted he would freeze in his tracks. The surrounding fog whipping at him like a harsh breeze, even if the sea air today was as still as it had ever been. At that point, the pangs in his chest would get worse and worse until they’d be unbearable. 

Maybe it was hereditary. Though, he’d never have the patience to get it checked out properly. Maybe it was simply The Lonely’s way of showing disapproval. 

Maybe that was what had happened to Evan. 

He didn’t like to think about Evan. None of them did. He was forgettable at best and a failure at worst. Then again, he wasn't going to be the first to fail The Lukas Clan til the moment he died and he certainly wasn't going to be the last. 

Captain Lukas had decided that he had had enough of thinking about other people for one day. 

  
  


He reminisced on that thought later that night, though in a much angrier fashion. The phone finally rang, and rang, and rang as Peter struggled to shake himself awake, pulling his ever-transparent form up and out of bed. He dragged himself across the gloomy cabin, giving fleeting glances to each and every photo Elias had put up of himself as what could only be thought of as a not-so-friendly reminder. It was nice of them, though. Peter liked to be reminded of just how social he could be being right now, and just how delightfully alone he was being instead.

The man picked up the phone, gritting his sharp teeth once more. He had to admit he was slightly relieved that Elias had finally decided to show himself. They weren’t someone who was typically renowned for being a hider. Peter didn’t like change. It was uncomfortable and messy at times. So, he practically had to be glad that things were going to be normal again. That things were going to be boring again.

  
  


A playful voice greeted him from the other end, unsettlingly distorted and crunched by the phone’s low, low, straight-out-of-2009 quality. “Hello, dear! Apologies for my absence but, what  _ can _ you do?” It purred with a few sighing undertones. Peter’s exhaustion and ever-thinning patience only let him respond with a simple noise of agreement. “You’re  _ funny _ , you know that? You- . You’re funny.” He giggled with the occasional pause. “ _ Sooooo _ ,” There was a quiet thud, which was presumably Elias flopping onto his own desk in the overdramatic way he did everything in. 

“Does my favorite _and_ my only living lover care to tell me about how his day was?” Elias interrupted before Peter could even fathom an answer. “You _are_ my favorite, Peter.” They repeated. “ _Mordechai_ was likable. He _used_ to be my favorite, you know? You know. But you? You’re nice.” He paused again, making a slight rustling sound in the short silence. “ _That’s_ what makes you different from him. _That’s_ what makes you _better_ than him.” 

Mordechai’s descendant was tempted to ask the man just _ ‘what the hell he was talking about’ _ , but he knew that they loved the sound of their own voice far, far more than they loved him, so he just let them continue. Spouting what was probably nonsense to anyone who didn’t care enough to enact a deeper analysis. 

“I miss him, sometimes.” Elias kept weaving his tapestry of long forgotten memories. “Not as much as I miss you, of course. You’re still here! He’s...he’s _ not _ . Hasn’t been for a while.” More rustling. “He might have been like you once. He might have been nice.” More rustling.

“Eventually, he kept vanishing like you, too.” The silence this time was uncomfortably loud. “Is every successful Lukas doomed to turn out the same? Is that what this is? It’s alright if you decide to follow in his footsteps. It is a family business after all. Though, I’m afraid I’ll miss you by a dreadful amount, _ darling. _ ” He expressed a tinge of clear sadness in his voice. 

“Are you trying to  _ compel _ me into coming back home?” Peter finally spoke up. He wasn’t exactly the brightest bulb in the lamp collection, but he knew manipulation when it made itself obvious. 

“ _ Compel you?”  _ They echoed back in disbelief. “Oh, _ heavens  _ no! This conversation is no different from normal couple talk. Wouldn’t that be nice, Peter? To be in  _ love _ like normal people are?  _ Wouldn’t that be nice?”  _ He queried again, which was followed up by _ even more  _ rustling. 

“No.” Peter shot back, fear creeping its way into his voice. It had finally dawned on him with an unmistakable horror that the background noises had been  _ scratching.  _ Elias resumed his chipper conversation, even if now Peter wasn’t listening at all. He began to tune out the man’s rambling and ranting about how difficult The Forsaken are as his own thoughts became too much until the point that it made him dizzy. Even if every tidbit circled its grim way back to the same awful conclusion. 

There is something terribly wrong with Elias Bouchard.


End file.
